Brides of Falconfell

by Bancroft, Blair

  The dowager regarded me above the width of her hoop. “Sit down,” she commanded. “You look ready to drop.”

  Avery rushed forward, helping me to a chair as if I were a doddering octogenarian. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Not at all the way one should begin a marriage.”

  “Maud would proclaim it a curse,” his mother declared, “and I must admit I am beginning to wonder . . . Where is she, by the by? She is conspicuous by her absence this morning.”

  “You haven’t seen Maud?” I asked. “Surely Thayne has told her by now.”

  “Likely in her stillroom, gloating,” Avery said. “Or wherever she chalks her pentagrams.”

  “Avery!”

  At his mother’s reproof, Avery cocked an eyebrow and shrugged. “Maud tells us she is a witch, what else are we to think?”

  “There is no need to assume Justine’s death pleases her,” the dowager returned. “That is outside of enough.”

  “My apologies, Maman. But you know it to be true,” he added under his breath.

  I sympathized with Avery’s point of view. Maud could have added any one of several poisonous plant decoctions to something Justine ate or drank last night. But why? Although I strongly suspected Justine had not died of natural causes, I saw no reason to suspect Maud. She had formed no attachment for me, I was quite certain. Certainly nothing that would inspire her to get rid of my rival, particularly when Justine had already been banished from Falconfell.

  But did Maud need a reason to kill? Perhaps she was truly mad and wanted no brides or would-be brides at Falconfell.

  Which included me.

  There was, however, a glaring fallacy in this reasoning. The dowager and Maud had co-existed for years . . .

  When Maud was sane.

  I shivered.

  “You must call me Isabelle.”

  Startled, I jerked out of my brown study, stammering, “Of course, my la— Isabelle. You are most kind.”

  “We are both Lady Hammersley,” she intoned with cool graciousness. “First names help avoid confusion. Nor is it proper for the mistress of Falconfell to be constantly addressing me as ‘my lady,’ as if you were a servant.”

  “As you wish . . . Isabelle.” I nearly choked on the word.

  “Confounded weather,” Avery grumbled. “I’d like to ride off all this doom and gloom.”

  And I would like to escape all the way back to Wiltshire.

  Shocked by such a wayward thought, I fixed my eyes on the elaborate flower pattern taking shape in Lady—Isabelle’s—hoop. I could embroider with competence but never with the artistry the dowager displayed. I was a manager. I could claim intelligence, common sense, organizational skills, determination. Courage, I hoped. None of these attributes, except perhaps common sense, would allow me to run from my responsibilities at Falconfell. From Thayne. From Violet. From all the people on the estate who needed to see the gloom lifted, to have the sun shine through, promising better days ahead.

  I was far from frail, but at the moment the burden seemed immense. More than I could bear.

  “Has anyone seen Maud?” We all looked up as Thayne’s bulk filled the doorway. He looked harried but every inch in command of a difficult situation. Strong, striking, and mine. Perhaps not all mine, not yet, but—

  “We were just remarking on it,” Isabelle said. “None of us have seen her.”

  “She’s not in her stillroom?” Avery asked.

  “The door was locked, as it always is when she’s not there.”

  “Perhaps she locked herself inside,” I offered.

  Thayne frowned. “I knocked, called her name.”

  “She can’t have gone out,” I said. “The weather is abominable.”

  Thayne and Avery exchanged one of those man-to-man looks men use when they don’t want to upset female sensibilities. Thayne stepped back into the corridor and Avery followed him out.

  “The hunt will do them good,” Isabelle announced. “Keep them occupied.”

  “You are not concerned?”

  “About Maud?” The dowager set down her embroidery, tucking her needle into the cloth, and looked me in the eye. “I have known Maud Hammersley for more years than I care to remember. She has survived my tenure here and Helen’s as well. I consider the old witch indestructible. Has she murdered Justine? I would not be surprised to discover she did. Nor do I intend to shed tears over it, one way or the other.” Isabelle picked up her hoop, adding, “I fear my Christian charity for Justine is negligible, no matter how direly that reflects on my soul.”

  Oh. What a remarkably strange morning.

  “Is it true?” Ross burst into the room, looking far more distraught than I would have expected. “I went out early to work on a weir and just heard. Is it true?”

  I crossed the room to where he stood, his boots muddying the carpet while Fraser hovered behind, looking anxious. “If you mean, is Justine dead, then the answer is yes,” I told him gently. “It’s possible her tantrum yesterday irritated some weakness in her heart. She was found dead in her bed early this morning.”

  Ross and Justine? I thought as his face twisted in anguish. When he had openly flirted with me on our trek up the mountain? When Justine’s ambitions seemed solely fixed on Thayne?

  An unrequited love on Ross’s part? But he had been so charming during our picnic . . . And he had nothing to gain by being nice to me . . .

  Nothing, absolutely nothing, about this day was making sense.

  A great hullabaloo roared up from the kitchen area, indicating the door to below stairs must be standing wide open. Sobs, wails, a male shout or two, Thayne’s voice giving orders. Even Isabelle rose and joined me at the door, peering out into the corridor. Thayne strode by, carrying Maud’s slight form and heading for the stairs. “She’s alive,” he called to me. “Avery’s gone for the doctor.”

  “In this weather!” Isabelle cried, clearly aghast.

  I touched her shoulder. “He’s young and strong,” I told her, and ventured a small joke. “He won’t melt.”

  After an annihilating look, she stalked back to her chair by the fire, grabbed up her embroidery hoop and stabbed the needle through the cloth.

  I sighed, and followed Thayne up the stairs.

  Was it just yesterday we had been married?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Maud, like Justine, had no visible signs of injuries. Unlike Justine, she was still alive. I banished the men from her room, and since I’d last seen Maud’s elderly maid having hysterics in the kitchen, sent someone scurrying to find Bess, before I proceeded to examine our resident witch. Thayne told me there had been some signs of a struggle in the stillroom, two glass jars and their contents shattered on the floor, a sturdy pestle fallen from its customary place on the mixing table. So I began with Maud’s head, gently probing for any indication she might have been struck down while working—and found nothing but a smooth, rounded scalp beneath thinning gray hair streaked with white. I paused to throw open the draperies, shove the bedcurtains back as far as they would go.

  Ah! Faint bruises were forming on Maud’s neck, another finger-like band around one arm. I had never seen such a thing before, but there seemed to be little doubt Maud had been attacked and strangled. Surely only a miracle had kept such a frail, elderly lady alive. I shivered. Evil walked at Falconfell.

  Bess arrived and we stripped away Maud’s clothing, changing her into voluminous white nightwear which seemed to swallow her body whole. We found not so much as a single additional bruise. Whoever robbed Maud of breath had not allowed her to fall to the floor but lowered her with care. Odd, very odd. Someone who knew her or someone well-trained in respect for little old ladies, no matter the irony of the moment.

  But why was Maud still unconscious? Whoever had come to the stillroom must have done so last night, for Justine’s body was cold when discovered this morning. Maud should have waked by now. Or . . . had she been forcibly dosed with laudanum?

  In that case she must have seen whoever
it was.

  I clasped my hands tight and ordered my wildly thudding heart to be still. In my position as mistress of Falconfell I was not allowed to panic.

  Maud could not have seen her attacker or she would be dead. And since the only witches who could restore their beauty and youthful strength were in fairy tales, we could only pray that, God willing, time would bring her back to us.

  But what if Justine’s killer had second thoughts . . .? On my way to finding Thayne, I told Fraser to post a footman outside Maud’s door.

  A veritable phalanx of males graced the master’s study: Thayne, Avery, Ross, and that Hammersley offshoot, Rab Guthrie. The spacious room suddenly seemed to dwindle to the size of Cook’s meat larder, the three Hammersley men dwarfing Avery, who was young and slender and looking vastly worried as he declared, “Stow your platitudes, Hammersley. There’s a killer among us. What are you going to do about it?”

  Ignoring Avery, Thayne fixed his gaze on me. “Well?”

  “Maud is still unconscious. I found no evidence of concussion, but it appears someone strangled her until she fainted. Why she is not yet awake I can only attribute to age and frailty. Hopefully, she will awake with no further repercussions.” I paused, suddenly conscious I might have overstepped my authority. But, true to my managing self, I firmed my stubborn Farnborough chin and added, “I have taken the liberty of asking Fraser to post a footman outside her door.”

  Silence as the men digested the import of my words. Thayne recovered first, thanking me for my help with Maud and, thank goodness, praising the wisdom of posting a guard. He would, he told us, order Fraser to see that Maud’s room was guarded at all times.

  “So I was right?” Avery said, his gray eyes alight now that his theory was no longer being ignored. “Justine, and likely Helen, were murdered.”

  We all looked to Thayne. I would like to think it was because he was lord of the manor, the person expected to deal with emergency situations like this, but I had the most horrid feeling it was because we all considered him the most likely suspect. Who had a better reason to rid himself of a faithless wife and an importunate would-be wife?

  “Ross, Rab,” Thayne ordered, seemingly oblivious of the sudden tension in the room, “speak to Fraser. He will likely need the help of some of your men if we are to guard Miss Maud around the clock. Avery, I charge you with keeping an eye on the ladies. I see no reason for your mother to fear, but Serena is a bride of Falconfell and, I suspect, at risk. As for Violet . . .” Thayne frowned. “A child should be safe, but so should high-born ladies, young and old. I will, therefore, add her to your list of charges. Not that the three of us”—he nodded toward Ross and Rab—“will not be looking out for the ladies’ welfare, but on us falls the burden of solving this mystery, and we will not always be at hand.

  “Serena.” My husband turned to me with the solemn face of a judge. “I am well aware how independent you are, but I beg you to heed any cautions Avery might suggest. Being made a widower once was quite enough.”

  Take orders from a boy five years my junior? I thought not. But this was not the moment for an argument. I responded with a shallow nod which, I told myself, could have meant anything, including, I’ll think about it. It was only much later the full import of Thayne’s words struck me. He did not care to suffer the pain of loss for a second time. Which seemed rather a selfish way to look at my possible demise.

  The males of the species, I reminded myself, were renowned among women for being obtuse, oblivious, arrogant, and frequently annoying. Females were forced to adapt, for surely the men would never do so.

  A soft rap at the door and Fraser appeared. “Beg pardon, my lord, but the new cook has arrived.”

  Now?

  I clenched my fists, longing to scream, No. Impossible. Not now. How could I deal with the inevitable histrionics of introducing a new cook to the staff when the household seemed under siege by the forces of evil?

  “Yes, of course,” I murmured, “I’ll deal with it,” and followed Fraser out.

  “One moment,” I called as Fraser paced in stately fashion toward a reception room on the far side of the vast front hall. “How is it we have acquired a cook so quickly? I assumed it would take much longer.”

  “Since the matter seemed to be of some urgency, Lord Hammersley sent to an agency in York, my lady, not London.” His face perfectly neutral, Fraser kept his gaze fixed somewhere beyond my left shoulder.

  “May I ask how long Nettie has been Cook here?”

  The butler’s brow wrinkled ever so slightly. “I believe Mrs. Ames, our former cook, retired close on five years ago, my lady.”

  My eyes widened. “The household has suffered Nettie’s cooking for five years, and now the matter is suddenly urgent?”

  Still not looking directly at me, Fraser said, “The meals were not always so . . . so unappetizing, my lady. Nor did my lord have someone whose tastes he wished to please,” he added softly. A decidedly unbutlerish remark.

  Effectively silenced, I tucked Fraser’s remark about Nettie’s cooking into a corner of my brain for contemplation at a later date and signaled for him to continue to our destination. In a matter of moments I had gone from expecting a cook selected from London’s finest to picturing a Yorkshire countrywoman of perhaps as ample girth as our Nettie. Instead . . .

  I entered the reception room and stared, struggling to adjust imagination to reality.

  “Madame.” A slim, shockingly handsome boy bowed to me. Fraser introduced him as Anton Fournier. He was older than Avery, I guessed, but still seemed a mere boy. And as a coup de graçe to my difficulties with the staff, I doubted it would be possible to get a lick of work out of the kitchen maids from now on. They would all be too busy gazing at him with soulful eyes or vying for his attention. Thayne’s agent in York had truly set the cat among the pigeons. What could he have been thinking?

  Solemnly, the young man handed me his references. “My father was an emigré, my lady, a chef of some renown, and he has taught me all he knows.”

  I sat down and read his references with care. One from his father, the head cook for a great house in Yorkshire, and one from his master, an earl from one of the oldest families in England. “From what I see here,” I said, “I am surprised you would accept a position this far removed from society where you might better display your skills.”

  “It is my first position as head cook, my lady. And Baron Hammersley offered a most generous salary.”

  “A wise move,” I suppose, “to test your skills in the obscurity of Northumberland.” He blushed, most charmingly. I smiled. “It seems you can be forgiven the sin of arrogance which afflicts so many of the best cooks. Fraser, you may show Mr. Fournier to his room, then introduce him to the staff below stairs.” I turned back to the newest addition to Falconfell. “Mr. Fournier, I will meet with you in the Yellow Room tomorrow morning at ten, and we can discuss the condition of the pantries, the state of the kitchen staff, and what changes must be made. And, yes, I know I am asking too much, too soon, but inspection and observation are all I require of you today. Your cooking duties will not begin until tomorrow.” I studied the young man who was regarding me so solemnly and sighed. I could not throw him to the wolves without a hint of warning.

  “You should know that you may encounter some animosity in the kitchen.” Though not from the kitchen maids! “Although our present cook has not proved satisfactory, I am told her family has worked for the Hammersleys for generations. Therefore, we have asked her to stay on as your assistant. I would ask you to exercise tolerance in dealing with her. If she does not come round, then we will deal with the problem at a later date. For now, please try to be kind.”

  “Of course, my lady.” A hint of anxiety flickered in the depths of the wide amber eyes staring back at me.

  “And I fear there is something more,” I added. “You should know you have arrived at a difficult time in our household. We are a house of mourning, with two recent deaths of ladies in the prime of
life. There will be talk, and I urge you to discourage gossip in the kitchen.”

  “Indeed, my lady. Distraction leads to poor results.” I almost smiled. I hoped that remark indicated Falconfell’s new cook did not tolerate poor results. “My lady?”

  “Yes, Mr. Fournier?”

  “I had hoped . . . it is a tradition with the best cooks, you see . . .” The young man’s Adam’s-apple convulsed as he swallowed before forging ahead. “I know it is not the way of the English, but to my father, to me, it is a recognition of our skill.” His handsome features dissolved into chagrin as he added, “Which skill I am well aware you have no reason to believe I have . . .” His voice trailed away.

  “It is all right,” I said, feeling kinship with his discomfort at being a newcomer in a house of strangers. “Please continue.”

  “The earl addresses my father as Gaston. If you might call me Anton, my lady?”

  Delightful. The boy had ambition. If he was as good as he thought he was, we would be fortunate to keep him for a year. I offered a gracious nod. “But of course. “Fraser?” The two men left while I continued to sit, wondering about the undoubted flurry Anton Fournier would set off below stairs.

  And what had Fraser meant when he told me Nettie’s meals had once been better than they were now?

  I plunged my head into my hands and allowed myself a quiver or two. Too many mysteries. Too much suffering. The quality of our meals was the least of my problems.

  Not so. I almost groaned aloud. The state of the staff was very much my problem, and I was thrusting a new cook on them when they were already in turmoil over Maud, whom most of them had known their entire lives. The primary responsibility for dealing with Nettie’s injured feelings was mine, not Anton’s. He would have enough troubles working out new kitchen routines . . .

  Feeling decades older than my actual age, I dragged myself out of my comfortable chair and for the second time that morning headed toward the green baize door that led below stairs.